


Retelling the Past

by 47_Protons



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: It's 3AM, The story is told in second person, The tags make it look dumb but really it's just, a play-by-year of what we've seen of spencers life, i'm just tired and sick, it's kind of sad but not really, lmao what up nerds im sad, my english teacher can come and fight me, the grammar in the story is better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 02:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/47_Protons/pseuds/47_Protons
Summary: You’re sad. You’re quiet, though you can chatter. You’re lonely, though people always want to work with you in projects. You’re different.You're six years old.





	Retelling the Past

You’re sad. You’re quiet, though you can chatter. You’re lonely, though people always want to work with you in projects. You’re different.

You’re six years old.

You’re mature. You take care of your mom. You help her with things. You cook. You clean. You’ve learned how to pay bills.

You’re nine years old.

You’re scared. You’re trapped. The football team and everyone they brought left a while back, after taking a few pictures, laughing boisterously and clapping each other on the back. Your clothes lie on the ground nearby, but you can’t get to them, tied as you are to the football post.

You’re twelve years old.

You’re the youngest one to walk across the stage at graduation. Your few friends clap for you, as your mother is absent. Your mind drifts to the band, on their third repeat of Pomp and Circumstance. The song gets lodged in just about everyone’s minds, eidetic memory or not. You shake your professor’s hand, and accept your first phD.

You’re fifteen years old.

You’ve taken a year off. You’re eighteen, and it register’s dully in your mind that those your age are graduating now from high school, and don’t already have two phDs. You wander the country, attending seminars, asking questions, and writing papers. You read, you write, you listen. The professors sometimes look startled to see someone so young talking of the same level of the topics they’ve taken years to gather. They recover quickly, and move on, quickly eager to be in discussion with those who are just as interested in a topic as they are.

You’re eighteen years old.

You’ve decided on a career. The days leading up were dull, yet exciting, sitting in the park near the chess tables, occasionally helping those who feel stuck to reach checkmate, but mostly reading. Constantly reading. Big books, small books, educational topic after educational topic were consumed by an eager and willing mind. The words drifted through your mind, your eyes darting from page to page, excitedly grabbing as much information as they could, as much information was available. The knowledge was committed to your memory, and while you know you could have passed the test with the knowledge already gleaned from class, it feels good, great, amazing, to have a defined direction. The test isn’t until next year, but you were infinitely happy to accept the offer.

You’re twenty one years old, and you’re going to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Your eyes burn, and your dreams are dark. You’ve seen many things, and many more you wish you hadn’t. You have a good team, even if you feel babied sometimes. 

You’re twenty four years old, and sometimes you question your decision.

You’ve been on more cases than you would’ve thought possible in these past few years. It’s exhausting, gratifying, and traumatizing, all in a neatly bundled package. You love your team. You love your job.

You’re twenty seven years old, and though sometimes you have nightmares, you don’t regret or question your decision.

You’re cold. You’re hurt. Your nose is full of the smell of burning fish. Your head slumps down to your chest. The blinking light of the camera taunts you. You hear the boots clunking on the wooden porch outside the door.

You’re thirty years old.

You have friends, a job, caring familial relationships. You have people, a team, a family, who accept and welcome what your peers would call your weirdness. You have your mom and your history and your brain, and a life worth living. You wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

Your name is Spencer Reid, and you finally feel you belong.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao what up nerds im an anxious mess and im sad


End file.
